


Two Atheists in a Foxhole

by Nutkin



Category: Supernatural
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-12-06
Updated: 2010-12-06
Packaged: 2017-10-13 13:20:17
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 8,626
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/137821
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/Nutkin/pseuds/Nutkin
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Dean and Castiel discuss whiskey, cheeseburgers and sex, and find some humanity along the way.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Two Atheists in a Foxhole

**Author's Note:**

> This is set in some kind of blurry area between "Dark Side of the Moon" and "99 Problems". It was originally supposed to take place after the latter, but I realized at the last minute that the timeline didn't quite add up.
> 
> Thanks to Edwardina for the beta!

They were a few towns east of Milton when Castiel appeared at the foot of Dean's bed, reeking of whiskey.

It had been a week since Dean's visit to Heaven, and the days blew by on a hard burn, every night spent in a different town. Dean barely remembered to leave Castiel a voicemail each time they landed in a new location, too distracted by the endless soulful looks Sam aimed at him and the long, miserable silences that followed. The whole world was ending, God was on shore leave, and Dean went to bed every night counting the reasons he should tell Michael to come on in.

All in all, it wasn't his best week ever.

"Oh, good," Castiel said, leaning against the room divider and clutching a plastic handle of Gran Legacy. "You're not asleep."

Dean wasn't; Sam had drifted off an hour earlier, and Dean was sitting on his own bed watching the steady rise and fall of his breaths.

"Uh, hey, Cas," Dean said. "Is everything okay?"

"Of course not." He gave Dean a funny look. "The world is ending."

"Let me rephrase," Dean said. "Is anything worse than it was the last time we talked?"

"Not particularly," Castiel said. He looked down at his bottle of whiskey and gave it a little shake, making the contents glug around. "I believe the Andes are experiencing an unseasonable heat wave, but there's no way of telling if it's directly related to the impending apocalypse."

Dean studied him a little more closely. "Is this the angelic version of a drunk-dial?"

"Perhaps," Castiel said shortly. "I am fairly intoxicated, and I'm seeking your companionship."

Dean glanced over at Sam, who still was out like a light. He'd been averaging six hours of sleep a night, if that, and Dean was starting to suspect he even dreamed about the mess they were in.

"Come with me," he said to Castiel, grabbing his jacket and the room key.

Castiel followed him outside and trailed him all the way to the motel office, still clutching his bottle around the neck. He wasn't staggering or anything, which by Dean's estimation meant he'd only downed a few quarts of booze; angel-buzzed, not angel-drunk.

"Wait here, you lush. I'm getting you a room."

Castiel's eyebrows knitted together. "Why?"

"Don't get me wrong, we can hang out or whatever, but I don't want to wake up Sam. I'm going to have to sleep eventually, anyway, and it gives me the creeps when you watch."

"You watch your brother sleep."

Dean paused, one hand on the door to the office.

"That's different," he said. "And it would probably give Sam the creeps if he knew."

Castiel didn't seem inclined to argue, so Dean went inside and booked him a room with a king-sized bed. The night clerk wasn't the same guy who checked him in earlier, but he didn't seem particularly surprised when Dean waved away his spiel about complimentary coffee and doughnuts at six AM.

"You picked a good night to drop in," Dean said when he went back outside. "This place has Magic Fingers."

Castiel pushed himself away from the wall, movements a little more fluid than usual, and followed Dean down the corridor. "I don't know what that means."

"It means you should flap yourself to a bank and get some quarters."

The clerk had given him the key to a room several doors down from the one where Sam was sleeping. The layout was identical, but it seemed a little smaller. Dean took the bottle of whiskey from Castiel and knocked back a long pull as he leaned against the desk.

It went down like turpentine, the flavor sour and sharp, and he whistled and studied the nondescript label.

"You go right for the top shelf, huh?" Castiel didn't look like he caught Dean's drift, so he added, "Pro tip: the stuff that comes in a glass bottle goes down a little smoother."

Castiel shrugged and took the bottle back. "It's all just fermented carbohydrates. I don't notice a difference."

Dean eyed him, torn between amusement and pity.

He didn't really know how Castiel managed to always look the same – if angel magic fixed up the tears and stains in his clothes or he frequented a dry-cleaner – but whatever he had been doing before was apparently no longer part of his routine. His skin and hair looked clean, but his coat was as rumpled as Dean had ever seen it, smudged with dirt and what might have been blood.

"I gotta tell you, man," he said, waving a hand at him, "this is a new low."

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, usually you pull off the whole Dick Tracy noir thing, but you're starting to verge into alcoholic hobo clown territory. Just throw on a pair of Sam's size fifteen shoes and we can take you to perform at kids' parties."

"I understand enough of that reference to know that it's derisive," Castiel said, sitting heavily on the bed. He took another swig from the bottle and narrowed his eyes at Dean. "I like this territory. It makes things easier."

"Yeah, well. I guess I can't argue there."

Castiel looked around the room curiously. It was a dive motel, but pretty nondescript. The wallpaper had a blue floral theme, and there was a lousy painting of a sailing ship over the bed.

"What am I supposed to do in here?" he said.

"I don't know. Take a bath. Watch some Pay-Per-View. Maybe you can get your Darryl Hannah on and learn a thing or two about people, since it looks like you're here for the long haul."

"There's no point," Castiel said sharply. "It doesn't matter if I learn how to fit in. It doesn't matter if I try to make peace with my circumstances. There is no peace to be had here, Dean, not for anyone."

Dean blinked a few times.

"Well, that got heavy awfully quick. So, what, life is meaningless now?"

Castiel turned to look at him. "When I rebelled, you told me there was something here worth saving. You said protecting people and families was the only cause worth dying for. But I see the way you look at Sam. I see how isolated you both feel. Even now, the only thing you share is misery. So you tell me, Dean, where is the meaning?"

Dean folded his arms, settling on the edge of the desk and crossing his legs at the ankle.

"You know, before angels starting flying out of my ass, I never believed in God. I believed in the people around me, who I relied on every day to keep me alive. And you have no idea how hard that can be. Sure, you can get mad at God for not returning your phone calls, but it's pretty easy to love someone who isn't around enough to show you their bad side." He rubbed at his chin and looked away. "But people – especially the people you spend your life with – sometimes it feels like all they do is disappoint you. They have flaws, they make mistakes, and you just have to get over it. Sam has pissed me off every way imaginable and even made up some new ones, but I still wouldn't trade him for anything."

"I don't see the logic in that."

"Maybe there isn't any. Maybe my life wouldn't have as much pain if I just dumped that kid on the side of the road a long time ago – maybe his wouldn't, either. But even if the crappy moments of the last few years outnumber the good moments ten to one, those good times are worth it."

"I don't share my life with anyone," Castiel said flatly. "My family is corrupt and I have no place among them. My life is devoid of... good times."

"Oh my God," Dean said, pinching the bridge of his nose. "What is this, your human-angel-hybrid adolescence? Woe is me, I'm so misunderstood, nothing good will ever happen again? Down a few more handles of whiskey, write some bad poetry, and move on."

Castiel shook his head and then rested it against the headboard.

"You wouldn't be so glib if you knew anything beyond this existence."

For a long, strange moment Dean felt sixteen again – staring at the resolute jut of a different jaw, caught in the kickback of a different cosmic fight.

He'd spent a good chunk of his life in this exact situation, trying to get his head around guys who used to have it great and wound up losing everything. The concept wasn't totally unfamiliar to him – he had his own threadbare memories of life before Mom died, and lately he spent most of his time missing the days before the apocalypse and demon blood and every other fucking thing came along – but his own losses never seemed that black and white. Unlike Dad and Sam, and now apparently Castiel, Dean's memories always managed to encompass just as much of the shitty stuff about the past as the good.

"You're right," Dean said abruptly. "I don't know what it's like to live over the rainbow. I've never had super-powers or made footsteps in the sand with Jesus. But you know what? I've got the ass-end of life, here, and I still care enough to fight for it. I don't need things to be all sunshine and moonbeams and higher vibrations to give a damn."

"I've spent months wandering the earth in search of something holy," Castiel said. "And all I've seen is free will taken to its most violent and cruel extremes. I would like to believe there's more to human life than this, but I've run out of places to search."

It took Dean a minute to place why that sentiment sounded so familiar, and when it came to him he couldn't quite stifle a laugh.

Castiel's eyes to narrowed. "What?"

"Nothing, no, just – you just reminded me of something, that's all."

"What."

Dean eyed him, trying to decide how he could possibly put it into words.

"How does your whole mind-reading thing work? Can you just, like, Google my brain?"

"I'm not familiar with that term."

"Of course not. Here, I'm going to think about something really hard, and you try to pick it up, okay?"

Dean furrowed his eyebrows and did his best to broadcast an old memory, and Castiel titled his head to the side thoughtfully.

"I remind you of a large sentient stuffed animal that attempted to take its life?"

Dean snapped his fingers and pointed at him, pleased.

"Exactly. His name was Teddy. Some weird wish-curse brought him to life, and he went through this same kind of downward angst spiral."

Castiel appeared to consider that. "Perhaps it's a fair comparison."

"Really?" Dean quirked his eyebrows. "That's not how people usually react to teasing."

"I'm not supposed to be here, Dean. My prolonged existence on this plane is equally unnatural. All things in creation have a purpose, and I have lost mine. I don't know how to be human. I can't find satisfaction in the banalities of human life."

Dean picked at the label of the whiskey bottle and studied him from the corner of his eye.

Interacting with Castiel had become a frequent and familiar experience, but in some ways it was still pretty weird.

These days Dean rarely talked to anyone who wasn't family, surrogate family, or somehow connected to a hunt. But Castiel wasn't any of those things – he wasn't even a fellow hunter Dean could share an understanding with based on common life experience. He was completely outside of Dean's world, his background full of mysteries and things Dean probably couldn't even understand. He was a freaking angel, a living embodiment of faith and morality, and Dean had been a full-time sinner since before he needed to shave.

And yet, here they were. Fighting the same battles and putting their asses on the line every day for the same cause.

Dean had to hand it to him for even trying to adapt to his shitty circumstances; if Dean were in his shoes he'd have hit the bottle a hell of a lot sooner. Castiel was the kind of guy who took his blows on the chin, and that made his current state all the more depressing to witness.

Dean scrubbed a hand over his face and got to his feet, digging his car keys out of his pocket.

"Grab your wings, Clarence. We're going on a field trip."

"My wings are transcendental. They cannot be grabbed."

"Then transcend them in the direction of the car."

Castiel stood up and then paused, looking down at himself and straightening his tie.

"What's wrong?"

"You said I look like a vagrant," Castiel said wearily. "Should I change into different clothing?"

"Huh?" Dean turned around, surprised to find that Castiel actually looked uncomfortable. A lifetime of cheerfully ragging on Sam about his hair, clothes, and posture had made Dean pretty careless with criticism; it was weird to think Castiel took anything he said that seriously. "No, dude, you're Bethlehem's Next Top Model. Let's go."

***

Lloyd's Truckstop Diner smelled like a thousand familiar things – coffee and bacon and warm vinyl – and for a minute Dean just paused in the entryway and breathed in slowly.

Castiel seemed less impressed. "Where are we?"

"Jackrabbit Slim's. An Elvis man should love it." All that got him was a pointed silence. Dean lifted his eyebrows. " _Pulp Fiction_? Really? That one never made it upstairs?"

Castiel looked as mystified as ever, and Dean shook his head. At least fifty percent of what he said was some kind of pop culture reference; it was amazing they could communicate at all.

"We're getting dinner," he said. "Try to act normal."

The place was mostly empty, save a few tired-looking truckers and a couple in their twenties. Dean picked a booth on the wall with fewer people, next to the window that overlooked the parking lot.

The waitress who approached them smiled blandly and tapped her pen against her notepad.

"You two need a minute to look over the menu?"

"I don't think so... Diane," Dean said, his gaze automatically flicking to her name tag and cleavage. "We'll both have a medium-rare bacon cheeseburger."

"Anything to drink?"

"Two Cokes, thanks."

She gave Castiel a funny look, as though waiting for him to contradict any of that, but nodded and retreated when he simply stared at Dean.

Castiel waited until she disappeared into the back, then leaned in over the table like he was going to divulge a secret.

"I don't require sustenance."

"Too bad," Dean said. "You're eating a cheeseburger, and you're going to like it."

Castiel straightened, but he looked puzzled.

"I would prefer to continue drinking alcohol."

"Yeah, well, your burgeoning alcoholism is starting to freak me out a little. Consider this an intervention."

"I enjoy alcohol," Castiel said, his gaze drifting to take in the diner decorations. "They could use more of it in Heaven."

Dean squinted at him, watching the way Castiel's seemingly bored survey of their surroundings actually scrutinized every detail.

He looked particularly out of place in the warm, bright diner, but that was the funny thing about Castiel: Dean couldn't imagine a setting where he would blend in. He always looked like he just came from some rainy alleyway rendezvous with Lauren Bacall, but the way he carried himself was a little more… _Body Snatchers_. Maybe it was his mannerisms, maybe it was the perpetually dead-eyed stare, but the year he'd spent on Earth hadn't done much to help him blend in.

Still, it was weird to see him this out of it. His stoic angel buddy, all depressed and deep in the bottle.

"What's the deal, Cas?" Dean finally said.

"What do you mean?"

"I mean, I don't get it. You're always the guy with the plan. You spent the last year looking for God when the rest of us were pretty sure he was vacationing in another solar system. That's – I mean, that's dedication. And now we know he's a dick who won't step up, and he expects us to put up with more than we can. But so what? We'll figure something else out. We always do."

A truck pulled into the parking lot, and for a moment its headlights flashed through the window, lighting up the angles of Castiel's immobile face.

"Finding God was the only hope I had of ever returning to Heaven," he said. "It is extremely unlikely that our mission will be successful, and even if we avert the apocalypse, my grace cannot be restored. I'm trapped here, Dean. Trapped in this vessel, on this planet, in this mess. I believe I was correct in rebelling, but Heaven is still my home."

Castiel plucked at the open folds of his coat, and Dean tried to imagine living in a body that wasn't his own. All that came to mind was the tight, uncomfortable feeling of waking up with his boots on.

"I guess I can't really relate. I never had a home, unless you count the car. And places like this – you know, diners, motels. They're pretty much the same everywhere you go."

"Is that why we're here?"

"We're here for bacon cheeseburgers," Dean said evenly. "So, uh, what is Heaven, exactly? I mean, I took the guided tour and all, but I still don't really get it."

"Heaven is the kingdom of God," Castiel said automatically, eyeing the jukebox across the room.

"Yeah, but... _what_ is it? You don't have a physical form of your own, right? Heaven isn't solid. You can't, you know, kick the tires. So is it a thought? A dream? A big group hallucination?"

Castiel looked out the window with a pinched lemon-sucking expression that Dean interpreted as deep thought.

"All things in creation are made from the same material. Thoughts are energy, and physical objects are tightly-compressed energy. This world is no more or less real than Heaven; the fabric of its being is simply constructed differently."

"Huh," Dean said. "So why can't your energy just compress itself into a body of your own when you come here?"

Castiel's gaze finally flicked over to meet Dean's. "I don't know. That's one of God's mysteries."

"He sure loves those, doesn't he?" Dean said, leaning back in his seat and causing the Naugahyde to squeak.

Apparently Castiel had learned the concept of a rhetorical question, because he didn't respond.

They lapsed into a silence that was oddly companionable; Castiel seemed pretty used to sitting around waiting for humans, and Dean was just glad to be out of that sad, dark motel room and the depressing train of thought he'd been riding.

"Here we go," said Diane-the-waitress when she reappeared at their booth. Castiel studied the plate she set in front of him without emotion or interest. "Can I get you anything else?"

"I think we're all set," Dean smiled. "Looks great."

The burgers were thick and smelled amazing, and Castiel watched as Dean piled the tomato, onion and lettuce on his.

"Dig in, buddy," he said.

Castiel kept staring at him for another beat, then picked up his own burger and reluctantly took a bite.

Dean made fast work of his food, more than halfway through his burger before Castiel even made a dent in his. He wasn't starving, or anything – he and Sam pulled off the highway for fast-food a few hours before landing at the Blue Briar Inn – but he hadn't been lying when he said diners like this one kind of felt like home. There was something comfortingly familiar about sitting in a pastel-colored booth and working his way through a platter of short-order cooking.

Castiel wasn't nearly as enthusiastic. The last time Dean saw him eat anything, it was under Famine's influence. He seemed way less impressed this time, his gaze drifting to the other diner patrons as he chewed methodically. He was probably downloading their life stories between bites, Dean figured.

He reached over and flicked the brightly colored dessert menu perched on top of the napkin dispenser.

"Check it out, there's a special on pie. I'm thinking apple-cinnamon, à la mode. Only way to fly."

Castiel zeroed in on Dean again, not bothering to look where he was pointing. His cheek bulged momentarily as he tongued at something in his teeth.

"Why are we here, Dean?"

"Because this is what life's about," Dean said, reaching for the ketchup. "And I figured it's time you learn that."

"Life is about… cheeseburgers," Castiel said.

"Yup." Dean smacked the bottom of the bottle, spilling a mess of ketchup over his fries. "Life is about the things that make your body feel good. You can't change the fact you're stuck here on Earth, but you can change the way you deal with it. And the first step is to start appreciating all the awesome stuff you can do with your five senses. Because if you don't start having a little fun, you really will end up like that teddy bear."

"I don't understand what you want—"

Dean picked out one of his fries – they were thick-cut and crispy, fresh from the fryer – and held it out.

"Just eat it. Don't think about it as sustenance, or a greasy chunk of potato. Think about how it tastes."

Castiel stared at him and then leaned forward, letting Dean stuff the french fry into his mouth. He kept his gaze on Dean as he chewed and swallowed.

"It tastes like salt."

"What else?"

"Tomato."

Dean lifted his eyebrows and nodded. "Is it sweet?"

"No. It's sour." He licked his lips and amended, "Perhaps it's a little sweet."

"How did it feel when you chewed it?"

"Hard. Crunchy. But soft on the inside."

Dean held out another one, too encouraged by this breakthrough to care that all the truckers in the joint probably thought he was his hand-feeding his gay lover.

"Now eat another one and think about all of those things together."

Castiel paused after swallowing that one, fixing Dean with one of his unreadable stares.

"It's good, right?" Dean prompted. "Better than a poke in the eye with a sharp stick?"

"I think I understand the point you're trying to make."

"And what point is that?"

Castiel looked down at his plate and then back at Dean.

"The meaning of life exists in small details."

Dean mulled that over as he pushed his fries around.

"Sure," he said. "That's a little deeper than my points usually are, but I guess you get my drift." He looked down at Castiel's half-eaten cheeseburger and jerked his chin in its direction. "You gonna eat that?"

"Yes," Castiel said firmly. He kept his eyes trained on Dean as he picked it up and took a bite, like Dean might snatch it right out of his hands.

"Attaboy, Cas," he said, crumpling his napkin and tossing it on his own plate. "There's hope for you yet."

***

Dean followed Castiel into his room when they got back, not quite ready to return to his own overwhelmingly quiet room and the worries that waited there.

Castiel sat back down on the bed, his gaze trained on Dean. He seemed less pissy, but the wind wasn't totally out of his sails, either.

"Thank you," he said. "For the... field trip."

"Yeah, well. Everyone needs a little pep-talk once in a while, right?"

Dean unscrewed the bottle of whiskey and threw back a healthy swig, aware that Castiel was watching him closely.

"You have a tremendous amount of loyalty, Dean," he said after a moment. "You should be proud of that."

Dean chuckled. "No offense, but that's pretty ironic coming from a rebellious fallen angel."

"Perhaps, but the observation is true. The desire you have to protect your loved ones is something you carry like a burden, but it's a great gift. Man can always choose to not believe in anything; he can wander through life alone, scared, and angry. That path is far more common than yours. It takes an immense amount of faith to forgive people their trespasses. You should be proud of that ability."

It took Dean a minute to digest that.

"I'm not really in a place to be doling out forgiveness, man. I could use more than a little of it myself."

"Take the compliment, Dean," Castiel said dryly. For some reason that made Dean smile. "You were right. It might be easier if I simply accept my circumstances."

"Hey, I'm not saying it's easy. You've got a pretty fucked up deal, and believe me, I know all about those. But it's not all pain and misery down here. There are cheeseburgers, and sunsets, and TV, and natural redheads." Dean eyed him, suddenly curious. "What's up with that, anyway? You've existed longer than original sin, but you've never gotten around to having sex?"

"The pleasure of sexual intercourse is incentive for procreation. I'm incapable of procreating."

"Dude, this is what I'm talking about. You have got to stop seeing things so black and white. Nobody just screws to procreate, except those wingnut families with reality shows. It's not just a physical thing."

"It is, by its very nature, a physical act."

Dean looked away and rubbed a hand over his mouth.

"Yeah, okay, technically it's physical. But you're thinking about it all wrong. It's not just some kind of downstairs handshake. When you do it right, it's a freakin' out of body experience. Time stops, your brain switches off. Nothing else matters. It's—" Dean wracked his brain, then snapped his fingers. "It's like cheeseburgers times infinity."

Castiel appeared to consider that. He took the whiskey and knocked back a swig, staring at some point in the distance with furrowed eyebrows. When he looked back at Dean and held out the bottle, he tilted his head thoughtfully.

"Will you show me?"

He said it with the same gravelly indifference he said most things, but Dean came close to doing an actual spit-take.

"I've made you uncomfortable," Castiel observed.

"Don't get me wrong, uh, I'm flattered, I just – don't you think that's a pretty bad idea?"

"Why would I?"

"Oh, I don't know. It might make things a little awkward, seeing as we have to work together to save the world."

"How would fornication subvert our working relationship?"

Dean ran a hand over his hair and tried to find the words to explain it, but there really weren't any. He couldn't put his finger on what it was about sex that changed things for people. It all seemed pretty stupid when he sat and thought about it.

"I wouldn't have eaten that cheeseburger if you hadn't ordered it for me," Castiel said. "I ate it and enjoyed it, but I won't seek out another one."

"You lost me."

"I don't need to experience something multiple times because I enjoyed it once. This body derives pleasure from many things, but I have no reason to indulge it." He paused, eyes narrowing as he waited for the right words to come – or channeled them from the astral plane; sometimes Dean really couldn't tell. "I'm sure you're aware that many species do not mate for life. It's the same principle. I have no instinctive desire to fornicate, or eat, or sleep, but I can choose to perform those functions if the circumstances are appropriate."

"Well, that's hot." Dean studied him for a moment. "I'm sure we can find you a nice girl somewhere to get the job done."

"Other humans..." He paused. "Make me uncomfortable."

"I think the feeling is mutual. But, uh, isn't guy-on-guy action kind of outside your moral code? I seem to remember fire raining down on some poor bastards in the Old Testament who, you know, crossed swords."

Castiel turned and looked at him. Humanity or no humanity, Dean was still disarmed by the intensity of that stare. It was like a laser beam, the weight of it almost physical.

"I have no gender, Dean," he said matter-of-factly. "Had Jimmy not asked me to inhabit this body when he was dying, I would still take the form of his daughter."

It occurred to Dean again just how disconnected a creature Castiel was. The difference between the thing he was talking to and the body it lived it never seemed so obvious. Exhaustion ringed Castiel's eyes like twin shiners, dark brown smudges that stood out sharply against his cheeks, but the clarity of his gaze was the same as ever. The light in his eyes came from a deeper place than it should; the consciousness that moved his limbs was not the one hardwired to do it.

He was just a little bit off, the place where two different people overlapped and blurred together. It was something Dean had felt about himself for a long time – ever since Hell, really. Ever since Castiel dragged him out.

"Okay," Dean said, surprising himself. "Yeah, sure, I guess. Why not? Let's get our gender-neutral freak on. I just seriously hope Chuck Shurley isn't tuned into his angel radio right now."

"I doubt our coupling is worthy of divine prophecy."

"Hey," said Dean, setting the whiskey bottle on the nightstand. "Don't underestimate my ability to couple. The Gospel of Winchester has already seen a few _Penthouse Forum_ moments."

Castiel furrowed his eyebrows, but Dean wasn't about to explain the finer points of pornography. He was too busy trying to get his head around what he had just volunteered to do.

He'd messed around with a few guys in his day, but this wasn't your typical booze-fueled hook-up – it was more like trying to teach a workshop on _The Joy of Gay Sex_ to a formidable, occasionally surly soldier of God.

"Okay," he said bracingly, and rubbed his hands together. "Technically kissing is optional in these situations, but it's usually a nice way to ease into things. So, uh. Lean your head in the opposite direction of mine and breathe through your nose, and just try to copy what I do with my mouth. And shut your eyes, because kissing with your eyes open is maybe the creepiest thing ever."

"I understand."

Dean glanced up at the ceiling, muttered, "Please don't smite me," and leaned in to press his mouth against Castiel's.

It was awkward at first, even though Castiel followed all of Dean's instructions. It seemed to take him a minute to figure out the mechanics of moving his lips against Dean's, and his body stayed tense even after his mouth became soft and pliable.

Dean pulled back cautiously, studying Castiel's face.

"How did that feel?"

Castiel worked his mouth oddly.

"It was not unpleasant."

"Well, shucks," Dean said. "Don't flatter me."

"I found it preferable to the french fries," Castiel said, so serious that it nearly broke Dean's heart.

"I guess that's something," Dean said. "Okay, this time I'm using tongue. Try to relax and just... go with the flow. You're not gonna get it up if you're thinking too much."

The second kiss was a little more natural. Dean nudged Castiel's mouth open gently, licking against his bottom lip. Castiel made a quiet noise when Dean's tongue found his, and it only took a moment before he began to respond with similar light, damp flicks and rolls. The taste of cheap whiskey lingered in the corners of his mouth, but somewhere under that was the familiar, not unpleasant taste of any other kiss – someone else's spit. For some reason that surprised Dean, although he hadn't put much thought into what he should expect.

He was slower about pulling back this time, lingering near Castiel's face long enough to feel the gust of his unsteady breaths.

"Good, right?" Dean said.

Castiel's gaze seemed fixed on Dean's mouth, but that got him to look up slowly and nod.

Dean nodded back at him and smiled. "It gets even better. Come on, how 'bout you lose a few layers. You're seriously over-dressed for this."

He tugged at the front of Castiel's trench coat, helping him pull it off his shoulders, and then did the same with his suit jacket.

Dressed only in his slacks and button-down Castiel looked smaller, less like the unflappable angelic soldier Dean had grown used to. It reminded him of when he rebuilt the car and had her stripped to the frame; like looking at the vulnerable blueprints of something he'd come to think of as solid, unchanging, eternal.

"Lay down," he said after a minute.

Castiel leaned back against the pillows and Dean swung a leg over him, straddling his hips with a knee framing them on either side. His body was surprisingly slender against Dean's, but then, that kind of made sense – Castiel's movements all signaled carefully controlled strength, but it didn't come from muscle and sinew.

His eyes seemed wider than usual when he glanced up at Dean, but he looked more surprised than alarmed.

"You still with me?" Dean said.

"Yes, I'm... with you."

"Good," Dean said, "'cause we're getting to the fun part."

He kissed Castiel's mouth again – lightly at first and then deeper, pressing their hips together snugly as he worked his tongue in. Castiel tensed a little when Dean's hands slid over his chest, but relaxed again, letting him pull open his tie and unbutton his shirt.

Deflowering virgins was never really Dean's style, but he'd hooked up with a few chicks in high school who were pretty clueless about this kind of thing. Castiel's version of cluelessness was different, though, uninhibited by the idea that any of it was wrong. He seemed puzzled but interested, giving a little groan of genuine surprise when Dean flicked a thumb over one of his nipples.

"How're you feeling?" Dean said, ducking to trail his mouth down Castiel's neck. His permanent scruff of five o'clock shadow was prickly, but the skin below it felt flushed and entirely human. Dean nipped at the side of his throat and laughed when Castiel's hips jerked up against his, seemingly of their own accord.

"Very warm," Castiel said hesitantly, "and the lower half of my body feels strange."

"The tingling sensation means it's working," Dean said, rocking down against Castiel's hips and getting another soft noise from him. "It's okay to move, dude. I mean, I guess I could just ravish you, but generally both parties are equally involved."

"Oh," Castiel said. "I should be reciprocating."

He touched the side of Dean's face abruptly, guiding his head to the side and leaning up to kiss Dean's neck. It felt surprisingly good – he seemed to be getting his bearings with the whole thing, dragging his lips over the pulse point and giving the skin there a soft, warm suck.

Dean shut his eyes and skimmed his hand down Castiel's stomach, rubbing lightly at the skin just above his pants.

"Guess I can't be pissed about getting a hickey," Dean said. "Since, you know, you branded me with your hand before we even met."

"What's a hickey?" Castiel said against his jaw, still oddly absorbed in the task of necking.

Dean laughed and tilted away from Castiel's mouth, stubble rasping gently as their chins brushed together. He nudged his way under the collar of Castiel's shirt and pressed a kiss there, sucking gently until a damp, pink spot blossomed on his skin.

"That's a hickey," he said, voice gravelly.

Castiel's eyes narrowed, and Dean could practically hear the mental gears turning as he filed that information away.

"Are hickeys good?"

"Pretty much anything you like doing is good," Dean said. "I think we'll save kinks and safe words for another Very Special Episode, but basically just... do whatever feels right."

Castiel blinked a few times and then kissed him, gripping the sides of Dean's face and thumbing at the hinges of his jaw. His hands slid down between them after a moment, and it took Dean a beat to figure out Castiel was working his shirt open, fingers surprisingly deft with the buttons.

The hands that drifted over his skin seemed more curious than anything, tracing the ticklish ridge of his collarbone and the curves of muscle in his chest. He let one hand linger over Dean's heart, making his pulse pick up suddenly.

It was weird, but Dean kind of understood – Castiel barely seemed familiar with the body he was living in, so messing around with someone else's was probably a brand-new experience.

"You're very solid," he said eventually. "It's pleasant."

"You're, uh, pretty solid, too."

Dean lost track of how long they made out like that. His dick swelled lazily in his jeans as Castiel's fingers roamed over him and paused at what were apparently points of interest – differently textured scars he'd acquired over the last two years, the line of hair just above the waistband of his jeans. Dean only stopped him when his fingers drifted into Dean's armpit, and that was with a startled huff of laughter.

"What is it?" Castiel said. "What's funny?"

"That, uh, that tickles," Dean said.

"I apologize." Castiel thumbed at the skin there on Dean's side. "Your body is very interesting. It has much less hair than this one."

Dean eased back and studied Castiel's face, surprised to find that his cheeks were flushed and his eyes seemed brighter. He still didn't totally understand how much Castiel-the-energy-beam was affected by his vessel's arousal, but he seemed pretty into it.

"You like 'em smooth, huh?" he said, amused.

"Apparently," Castiel said. He shifted awkwardly, inadvertently driving the bulge of his cock up against Dean's hip. "I seem to be ready for intercourse."

"Yeah, I noticed," Dean said, shifting his weight to grind down on him. "We really need to work on your dirty-talk skills."

"What's—"

"It's, uh." Dean kissed the dip under Castiel's mouth, breathing out a warm huff there as his own dick rutted against Castiel's. "Stuff you say during sex. You know, like, 'I'm so wet, your cock is so big.' It's... one part compliment, two parts stating the obvious."

"I enjoy your smell," Castiel said after a moment. "It's earthy, and befitting a human male."

Dean couldn't help but smile. "Well, that's a start."

Dean leaned in over him, pressing his their chests together when he kissed him again. Castiel leaned up into it, their lips catching softy before his tongue eased in. It rubbed at Dean's curiously, and he made a small, impressed noise when Dean's rubbed right back.

"Your mouth is very pleasurable," said Castiel, breaths a little uneven against Dean's face. "I like the sensation of it, and… I like kissing it."

"You're gonna like it even more in a minute," Dean said lowly, sliding down and dragging his lips from Castiel's sternum to the light trail of hair under his navel.

Castiel sucked in a sharp breath as Dean skimmed his teeth against the skin there and worked his belt and trousers open.

His cock was straining against the front of his briefs, and Dean didn't hesitate before rubbing his face against it, breathing in the heady smell. He hadn't done this in a long, long time, but that alone was enough to make him swell harder in his jeans.

Castiel's breaths were coming faster, and his cock twitched under Dean's mouth when he sighed against the fabric.

"This is it, man," Dean said, lifting his eyebrows at him. "No take-backs. You sure you're ready to quit being the three-thousand-year-old virgin?"

"Yes," Castiel said simply.

Dean tilted his head agreeably and tugged Castiel's cock free, giving it a slow, deep pump. His hips jerked a little, sliding it through the circle of Dean's fingers.

"Easy, tiger," Dean said, tongue lingering at the slit before he slid his mouth down over it.

He just sucked at the head at first, one fingertip tracing a vein along the side and making precome pulse out the tip. Castiel gasped – a ragged, desperate noise that made Dean's lips pull up in a smile even as he bobbed down lower.

He let himself go slowly at first, getting used to the stretch of his jaw, but he hollowed his cheeks on the upstroke and thumbed at the underside where his hand gripped the base.

"Oh," Castiel said, sounding surprised.

His cock was velvety smooth, hard from the rush of blood pulsing under the skin but still giving a little where Dean's lips tightened around it. It tasted totally human – musky and salty and sour, making spit collect in the corners of Dean's mouth as he ground his own dick against the mattress.

It was easy to lose himself in the rhythm of it, getting reacquainted with the whole process of giving head while figuring out what Castiel seemed like to best – the little noises and flickers of tension he gave when Dean squeezed or sucked in a particular way. He was slow to realize that Castiel was staring down at him the entire time, studying him with a steely, soul-searching intensity that made Dean's neck flush and his cock throb.

Dean shifted a little to glance up at him, and Castiel reached down slowly, touching Dean's cheek where the head of his cock bulged it out. His fingertips traced the curve, then drifted to the spit-slick corner of Dean's lips, rubbing at his mouth and letting out a tense, heated sigh.

Dean's eyes fell shut, heat rising to his face as he bobbed lower again. He was supposed to be the one with the upper hand, the one showing Castiel the ins and outs of this particular human experience, but right then he was intensely aware of how powerful Castiel was – that this was a freakin' angel of the Lord, the one who saved him from Hell and rebelled because he believed Dean had a better grasp on right and wrong than his angelic superiors.

For some reason that made his whole body twist with heat, his pulse thudding loudly in his ears. He groaned a little as he pushed himself lower, his lips touching the circle his finger and thumb made around the base of Castiel's cock and the pit of his throat squeezing around the tip.

Castiel gripped his shoulder abruptly, like an automatic reflex, the button on his shirt cuff dragging across Dean's cheek.

He couldn't tell if Castiel was drawing on his objective knowledge of sex or it was an instinctual thing that came with the body, but his hips started to move then, thrusting up into Dean's mouth in ragged, needy jerks.

"Dean," he said, voice strangled and warning. " _Dean_ —"

His whole body tensed, the muscles in his thighs coiling tightly at either side of Dean's chest. It hadn't taken nearly as long as Dean would have figured, but Castiel's body seemed primed and ready for it, as eager and easy as any other virgin.

Dean pulled back and jerked him through the first wave, his fist moving in spitty glide as Castiel shot his load across his stomach. A heavy wad of it slipped down and caught on Dean's hand, smearing as Dean stroked him and giving his cock a bitter, musky taste when Dean slid his mouth back over it.

He caught the last few spatters against his tongue, and lingered there, lips drawing tightly around Castiel's dick before he swallowed and eased back.

Castiel looked completely wrecked – his jaw had gone slack, his shirt still hanging openly around his sides, and his chest was heaving with deep, shuddering breaths. Dean had never really seen him look more human, and it was weird to think that he had done that to him.

"We having fun yet?" he said, crawling up next to Castiel on the bed and working his jeans open. "How'd that compare to the fries?"

"Favorably."

Castiel turned to look at him, his eyes narrowing with interest as Dean tugged his own cock out and gave it a few deep, tight strokes.

"How should I reciprocate?" he said, winded but oddly earnest.

"Just – here—" Dean took Castiel's hand and brought it to his cock, fitting his fingers around it and guiding him in a deep, tight pump. "Just do that, like I was doing with my mouth."

You could say a lot of things about Castiel, but he knew how to follow an order. His fingers shifted around Dean's cock with the same curiosity he'd shown about the rest of his body, but he mimicked the exact speed and rhythm Dean had demonstrated.

"Is that good? Is this what you want?"

"Yeah, Cas," he breathed, "just like that, fuck, c'mere."

Dean dragged him into another kiss, this one unapologetically hard and deep, but Castiel didn't seem fazed. He kissed back just as intensely, breathing warmly against Dean's cheek as his tongue traced the edge of Dean's teeth.

Dean only broke away when his lungs burned with the need for air, and Castiel seemed content to kiss at his chin and then his neck, apparently aware of exactly how much Dean liked that.

"Oh, God," he muttered, thrusting into Castiel's hand. It was like all the tension in him – not just from the last few minutes, but the whole day and week and goddamn year – was boiling under his skin, yanking him to the edge. "Yeah, Cas, yeah. Fuck."

"Dean," Castiel said, quiet but firm, like he was simply acknowledging the effect he was having.

Dean's mouth fell open as he came, shooting across his t-shirt in fat, messy spatters. Castiel's fist tightened as Dean's cock jerked in it, giving him those same measured, reliable strokes until the last of his load dripped out.

It took a few minutes before he came back to himself, and when he did Castiel was staring at him through narrowed eyes, like he was cataloguing whatever expression was on Dean's face.

They just looked at each other, the full weight of what had happened settling into Dean's bones. It didn't really matter on a cosmic, moral level, he figured – the only reason either of them had reached this point was that God didn't care what they did. But he couldn't help feeling like they had just executed a joint fuck-you to someone upstairs, dotting the _i_ s and crossing the _t_ s of their own personal rebellions.

"So," Dean said eventually. "Uh, that's sex, more or less. It's better when you actually, you know. Get an ace in the hole, so to speak, but you gotta walk before you can run."

"That was entirely adequate," Castiel said. He glanced away and then back at Dean, seeming to remember Dean's reaction to his poorly-phrased praise earlier. "I found it very enjoyable. The pride you take in your sexual prowess is not unfounded."

"Thanks. That means a lot," Dean said dryly.

"I didn't expect to feel that much." Castiel rolled onto his back. "Not only physical sensation, but emotion. I see now why sexual intercourse is forbidden among angels."

"Wait, why?"

"Emotion is unpredictable," he said. "It leads down a dangerous road."

"So, what, happiness is your gateway drug?" Dean frowned at him. "That's nuts."

"Like I've said, I'm not human. You have emotional needs that must be met to maintain your comfort and, in some cases, sanity. I don't have those requirements."

"You know, you might want to stop looking down your nose at human needs and requirements if you're gonna play for our team."

"I didn't mean to offend you." He looked over at Dean again. "I am grateful to have had that experience. Especially with a human I already feel much empathy for."

"Yeah," Dean said. "Me too. Uh, you know. With an angel."

Castiel actually looked amused.

"For someone so critical of my ability to communicate, you occasionally have a hard time with it yourself."

"Bite me," Dean said shortly. "That clear enough?"

A line appeared between Castiel's eyebrows, and he frowned thoughtfully. "Well, it does have multiple connotations now."

"Look at you, with the double-entendres," Dean said, knocking an elbow against Castiel's side and earning himself a small smile in return. "I didn't think you had it in you."

Castiel watched with apparent interest as Dean peeled his t-shirt off and attempted to wipe up the mess on Castiel's stomach. He was able to get most of it, but they both smelled pretty unforgivingly of jizz.

"You'll probably wanna take a shower before winging off," Dean said, tossing his shirt off the side of the bed. "So you don't smell like a, uh, vagrant. But check-out isn't till noon tomorrow, so…"

"I understand," he said, tucking himself back into his pants and zipping them up without any trace of self-consciousness. He pulled his tie off, but sat up to button his shirt, and leaned back against the headboard when he was done. He didn't seem to be suffering from any kind of post-coital lethargy, but even with his clothes back in place he looked different – his body still sex-flushed and his hair flattened from the pillow.

Dean knew he should probably head back soon, his own body happily succumbing to the lull of sleep, but he kind of liked the uncomplicated silence of this room.

Nothing was different, really; life still sucked, and the world was still ending. But he could tell that he and Castiel were on the same page, even if it was just for the night. Someone else felt as lost and confused as Dean, felt responsibility and fear and didn't know what to do with it. Between the two of them they didn't have enough faith or hope to fill a hip flask, but they were in this shit together. It was nice.

"Are you going to return to your room?" Castiel said eventually.

Dean shrugged, his back popping as he rolled over. "I guess I could just sleep here."

"I thought I... creeped you out."

"You do," Dean grunted. "But fornication makes us mortals pretty tired."

"I could refrain from watching you rest, if you that would make you more comfortable."

"Yeah, that'd be good," Dean said, stifling a yawn. "Sam's gonna freak when he wakes up and I'm not there..."

"I will wake you at dawn."

Castiel touched Dean's forehead, and for a moment Dean braced himself for some kind of angel-whammy. His fingertips just lingered there for a moment, though, like it was some kind of friendly, affectionate gesture.

"Therefore my heart is glad and my tongue rejoices," he intoned, voice gravelly. "My body also will rest secure."

"What the hell does that mean?" Dean mumbled.

"Sleep, Dean," Castiel said authoritatively, pulling his hand back and settling in next to him. "Your burdens will wait until morning."

Dean squinted at him, but Castiel's chin was tilted up and his gaze was fixed on the ceiling, already honoring his promise to not watch.

"You're a good dude, Cas," Dean said after a long moment of silence. "I know it's hard being down here, but – this kind of thing, having someone you can rely on and know they rely on you, that's worth saving. Even if we're not family, we go through stuff together, and that means something. Heck, that means everything."

"The good times that make up for the bad," Castiel said, echoing Dean's earlier words back at him. He tilted his head and looked down at Dean. "I was wrong when I said I had none."

"Damn straight," Dean said, yawning again. "You got me, and Dean Winchester ain't nothing but a good time."

He reached out to squeeze Castiel's shoulder, and after a few minutes that's how he fell asleep: curled on his side with one hand tucked around Castiel's arm, while the angel studied the ceiling and smiled.


End file.
